From the other side
by CloudyLey
Summary: What stands most in a sociapath's way is himself... 2 years after the Fall. Sherlocks POV  Rated T for minor drug reference.   This is my first fanfic, so I'd really appreciate reviews :  Cheers! I might publish this in German as well  my first language.


**From the other side**

It was snowing. Thick white flakes covered the streets and rooftops of London and wrapped the nightly city in an unusual silence.

Sherlock Holmes barely felt the cold. He'd turned up the collar of his coat and his breath formed white clouds in front of his face. A quick look on his phone told him, that he'd been standing there for over an hour and there was still no sign of John Watson.

Sherlock knew returning to Baker Street or for that matter being in London alone, wasn't exactly sensible, even now, after almost two years had passed. But "sensible" had never really been Sherlock's strong suit. He was sure Moriarty had taken precautionary measures concerning him, even in the case of his own death. Still he hadn't hesitated one moment, when he'd had the chance to return, even if it was just for a couple of days.

John would've called him thoughtless, but Sherlock never did anything thoughtlessly. Nothing he considered important anyway. He just made his decisions quicker than other people and once he'd decided trying to change his mind was pointless.

When Sherlock was by himself he sometimes imagined John's reactions in certain situations, how he'd respond in a conversation, telling Sherlock to act appropriate… Not that he would ever listen to him.

Sometimes he'd caught himself talking to John, when he was by himself, as if he'd never left Baker Street. Sherlock briefly shook his head, as if to get rid of his thoughts. He fixed his eyes upon the door on the other side of the road again, which had the figures 221b on it.

What if he wouldn't come? It was only a couple of hours till the former consulting detective would have to leave London and England once again. He regretted putting his visit to Baker Street until the very end of his stay. Maybe John wouldn't even come home tonight. The picture of John, warm and safe in a strange apartment, lying in bed with one of his fleeting acquaintances crossed Sherlock's mind. Or maybe John had, now that Sherlock was gone, actually managed to hold on to a relationship more than a couple of weeks.

Another image came to Sherlock's mind. An image of John bent double on his bed, like a child, trembling violently, his blanket in a heap on the floor. Sherlock had heard screams in the middle of the night and was standing stock-still in the door frame, like he'd been frozen there, unable to cross the threshold. He hadn't been able to help John and also he wasn't even sure if John would've wanted his help. Eventually he'd just tiptoed into the room and covered the doctor carefully with his blanket before he'd gone back to bed.

Would John ever forget him? Maybe he'd already done so. Sherlock wondered, whether he'd forget John, if….

A cold shiver ran down his spine at this thought. He'd rather forget himself. And god knows, he'd tried… Sherlock unconsciously adjusted his sleeves and gloves. John would've been disappointed with him.

But he hadn't forgotten anything. He'd just felt more and more guilty, as he was leaving behind the world of the living and made the death he'd faked slowly come true, shot by shot.

And he'd seen him over and over again, standing by the black gravestone with his name on it, hearing the desperation in his voice.

"_One more miracle, Sherlock…for me. Don't be dead. … Just for me… Just stop it. Stop this."_

He'd watched, as always. And once more he hadn't been able to do anything but look on helplessly, frozen. He couldn't do anything for John.

Sherlock had visited the blog, only to discover that it wasn't updated anymore. Eventually the site was deleted. But John hadn't moved away from Baker Street. Probably Mycroft was paying part of the rent these days.

In this moment Sherlock heard muted steps coming closer. A figure appeared in the light of a street lamp, casting the shadow of a small man on the snow. Noiselessly Sherlock disappeared in the darkness of a driveway. On the other side of the road John Watson was walking cautiously towards house 221 b. He was limping slightly, the detective noticed right away that he'd been drinking and had to concentrate to walk straight.

Suddenly Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to cross the street and run towards John to support him and make sure that he got to bed safely and undamaged. He wanted to tell him, that he was alive and promise him that he would never leave him again. That he indeed could make this one miracle come true.

But it was too dangerous, he told himself. And what if John would not want him in his life anymore, after nearly two years? Maybe he would never forgive Sherlock, maybe rightly so.

So Sherlock Holmes just stood still in the shade and watched John Watson climbing up the steps of their former home, slightly swaying, and then rummaging in his pockets for the key. Sherlock let one hand glide into his coat pocked and touched his own key with his fingertips. He couldn't make himself throw it away. After all…sentiment.

Finally John managed to open the door. Suddenly he looked back over his shoulder at the other side of the road, as if he felt someone was watching him. If Sherlock hadn't known better, he'd have sworn John looked directly at him. But he knew that wasn't possible. The doctor turned back and the door snapped shut behind him.

Sherlock watched the light in John's room turn on and off again. He waited a few moments before he stepped back on the street and turned to leave in the same direction his former flatmate had just come from, only to stop after a few steps.

_Damn it._

He hesitated shortly before he crossed the street with long steps, walking towards 221b.

In front of the door he stopped and took a deep breath. Slowly he put his hand in his coat pocket and extracted the key he'd carried for the last two years. For a moment his hand hovered over the lock. Sherlock sighed quietly. Then, with a quick movement, he threw the key in the letter box and left.


End file.
